He didn’t hesitate. “That’s Pedro. No mustache and glasses, but it’s him. See the mark?”
Unbelievable, Kennicott thought. Here he and Greene were busting their asses to try to find Ozera, and Armitage had met with him before the trial started. And never disclosed this to anyone. Greene was going to have a fit when he found out.
Francesca the waitress arrived with the two bottles of beer. Severino plunked them off her tray. Kennicott reached into his pocket for some money, but the manager waved him off.
“You have an employment file on him?” Kennicott asked, once Francesca was out of earshot. “Address? Social security number?”
Severino pulled out a white towel that was looped around his belt and wiped down the chair by his side. “Come on, officer. What do you think? Look around—half the people in here are illegals. Working their balls off. Construction. Paving. Building the whole fucking city. You try running a business in this town. Bylaws for everything. I get charged twenty-five bucks for every stupid garbage bag we put out on the sidewalk.”
“So you’ve got nothing on this guy?”
“Nada. He worked for tips. And one day Mr. Blondie came back in. Looked like they fought again, and then Mr. Suit stormed out.”
“What did this Pedro say about it?”
Severino shrugged. His focus had shifted back to other tables, like a searchlight that had temporarily paused, then started up again. “He said the guy was a demanding customer and a lousy tipper. Pedro didn’t show up the next day and that was it.”
This Ozera was a slippery fish, Kennicott thought. He seemed to be able to talk himself into any kind of job. Especially when it had something to do with serving food. He’d tell Greene about this too as soon as he got home.
“Anything else you can tell me about him?”
Severino stood. Anxious to get back to the work. “Guy could sell ice to the Eskimos. Talk his way into anything. I’d hire him again in a heartbeat. You still drink Moretti, eh?”
“Still?”
“I remember,” Severino said. “You and your model girlfriend drank it here Saturday afternoons.” He pointed to the food stand, where a small crowd had gathered around Andrea.” I see her picture now on the cover of all the fashion magazines the girls bring in.”
Kennicott put a five-dollar bill on the table.
Severino hovered for a moment. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but they never found the guy who killed your brother, did they?”
Kennicott took a sip of his beer. It was cold and good. “Not yet,” he said.
“Don’t be a stranger. You’re welcome here anytime. With or without your model girlfriend.”
69
Ari Greene’s most vivid memory of Victoria Day had to be when he was in grade seven. He and some friends rode their bikes through the city as dusk settled in, the spring trees in bloom everywhere around them. They took over a patch of ground on the steep hill at Earl Bales Park among the crowd filing in for the fireworks display. A few kids had brought blankets, which they spread out on the tilted lawn. Somehow in the jumble of people Karen O’Hara ended up sitting beside him. Very close.
Although there had been some debate among the grade-seven boys as to whether O’Hara or Lane Wilson was the prettiest girl in class, there’d been no question at all that she had the best body. It was a remarkable thing, and Greene had spent a good deal of the school year sneaking looks at her from many different angles.
She was smart and friendly, one of those people who touched you on the shoulder when she talked. He always felt comfortable around her, but he’d never been this close. Especially on a blanket, with the late-spring darkness falling all around them.
“Ooooh.” “Ahhh.” “Wow.” The crowd reacted as one to every burst of color in the blackened sky when the fireworks display began.
“They’re so beautiful,” O’Hara said after a particularly spectacular one.
Tongue-tied, Greene could only nod. He felt her hand slide into his. Perspiration erupted across his skin and all he could think of was how sticky his fingers must have felt. She’d angled her body and rubbed against him. The only light was the sporadic flashes of color in the sky. She moved his palm over to her flat stomach, then upward. Rising.
There was a dryness in his mouth that he’d never felt before as she brought his hand to her breast.
“Detective Greene, Mr. Wilkinson, great of you both to come,” Ralph Armitage said, extending his large hand, a huge grin pasted in place. They’d just stepped onto the backyard stone patio.
Greene shook his hand. He’d read about the Armitage estate, which was always described in various articles as “vast” or “sprawling,” but looking down into the valley, the sheer scale of it took him by surprise. There was nothing but trees for as far as the eye could see. Below, a gigantic gazebo had been set up, as well as tents, a playground, and even a set of bleachers. More than a dozen buses were parked over to the side. Piles of children poured out of them, amazed that they’d been transported to this wonderland.
“I wanted to thank you personally for all the work you did on the case,” Wilkinson said to Armitage.
Right on script, Greene thought. Just as they’d practiced on the drive up here.
“I’m sure Albert Fernandez will do a great job on the retrial,” Armitage said. “Don’t you think so, detective?”
“Absolutely.” Greene pointed to the cascade of children running into the backyard. “Every Canadian kid has great memories of Victoria Day.”
“We’ve brought in more than a thousand children this year,” Armitage said. “I’d love you to meet my wife, Penny. She’s down below, the woman with the clipboard. You wouldn’t believe how much work goes into all of this. A million details. And something always goes wrong.”
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Two minutes ago she called me all in a panic because some new waiter had shown up. I told her relax, we can use all the help we can get.”
A waiter, Greene thought, recalling a conversation he’d had with Daniel Kennicott yesterday. “We’ll keep an eye out for your wife,” he said.
“Great. Grab your seats in the bleachers. I’ve reserved spots for you in the first row.”
“Thanks,” Greene said.
“Penny’s got me working up here as the official greeter. Awotwe Amankwah from the Star told me he’s coming and I want say hello, but I’ll be there before the fireworks start.
Greene had worked closely with Armitage for months. It was hard to tell if the man was nervous. He was always so smooth, but something about him seemed off. Even more forced than usual. Maybe he had a hunch that there might be another kind of fireworks tonight.
The air was warmer in the valley, and there was only a thumbnail of a moon on the horizon. Wilkinson walked beside him. Greene could see his eyes were fixed on the children at play.
Dusk came slowly near the end of May, adding a touch of magic to late-spring Canadian nights. They took their seats on the bottom row of the bleachers. Penny Armitage was impossible to miss. Tall and willowy, she flitted about chatting with everyone, ticking notes off on her clipboard. The bleachers behind them filled up with guests, the grass on both sides with children. Greene scanned the crowd. He saw Awotwe Amankwah walking in with his two kids and waved.
“Welcome, everyone, welcome,” Ralph Armitage said, stepping onto the pieces of plywood flooring that had been placed on the ground as a temporary stage. A few spotlights had been set up, and he had a microphone in hand.
“I am thrilled to welcome everyone to the twenty-fifth annual Armitage Family Victoria Day Celebration.”
An enthusiastic roar went up from the crowd of children.
“Fireworks start in about five minutes,” he said. “But first I want to say a special word of thanks to my amazing wife, Penny, who’s spent countless hours putting this all together.”
Penny walked tentatively into the light and took the microphone. The clipboard was still in her other hand. “Than
ks, Ralph,” she said, her voice quavering. “I’m not a public speaker like my husband, but I just want to thank the whole Armitage family so, so, so, much. My wonderful sisters-in-law, I couldn’t have done this without you. Ralph’s parents, Bill and Sandra. You’re the greatest.”
Another cheer went up from the crowd.
Penny passed the microphone back to her husband and looked relieved to go to the back of the stage.
Greene touched Wilkinson on the shoulder. “I think you should go up and introduce yourself to Penny Armitage.”
“Okay,” he said.
Greene watched him walk up to the side of the stage. Even though Wilkinson had lost so much weight, he still lumbered along like a big man.
Armitage took the mike back from Penny. “Are you kids ready?” he shouted in full camp counselor mode.
“Yes!” a chorus of children screamed back.
“No?” he asked theatrically.
“Yes!” the kids yelled louder.
Greene had heard “Ralphie” had spent years being a camp counselor, and you could see why he’d been good at it. He looked genuinely happy.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes!” The voices were almost hysterical.
“Okay. Without any further ado,” he said, “let the show begin.”
Wilkinson came into the light by the back of the stage. Armitage saw him and rushed over, extending his hand in his usual greeting. Greene watched him tap Penny on the shoulder and direct her attention to Wilkinson.
Penny’s vibrant smile turned sad. She touched Wilkinson on the shoulder with compassion. It was easy to read her lips. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry for your loss,” she said.
Wilkinson nodded with the fatigue of a longtime mourner.
A small man in a black and white waiter’s uniform popped onto the back of the lit stage. He had a tray in one hand with a few glasses of water on it. No one noticed him.
Greene stood up.
The waiter came up behind the three of them. He said something to Ralph Armitage, but Greene couldn’t see his lips.
It didn’t matter.
Because he saw Ralph Armitage’s face fall when he turned to look at the short man.
And Greene knew.
70
Every night for the last month, Ralph Armitage had had nightmares about this moment. Two days before, when he read that front-page article in the Saturday Toronto Star, his sense of impending doom had heightened to the point where he couldn’t sleep at all. He’d told Penny it was because of his excitement about the big party, combined with the St. Clair trial starting up. How could he say to her, “I can’t sleep because at any moment I could be arrested?”
And now it was happening. He was watching Detective Greene’s mouth move; the words seemed unreal. But he could feel Greene’s hand on his arm, couldn’t he?
“You have the right to remain silent,” the homicide detective was saying.
Armitage felt himself nod. But it seemed like someone else. Penny was clutching him. Digging her fingers into his arm.
“You have the right to retain a lawyer.” Greene kept talking. Blah, blah, blah. Like I don’t know my legal rights, Armitage thought.
Greene had waited until the lights were turned off on the stage to arrest him. The fireworks were exploding above them. The whole thing had happened so fast. But slowly, in a weird way.
“I’m the baker. The witness you’ve been looking for,” Ozera had told Greene moments before. “You arrested the wrong man.”
“Why’s that?” Greene asked.
Ozera looked right at Wilkinson. “I saw everything. Dewey was the shooter. When Larkin saw he was about to fire at Jet and Suzanne, he knocked Dewey’s hand away. He probably saved Jet’s life. Suzanne’s too. But Dewey slipped, and that’s why the bullet hit your son.”
“And the other shots?” Greene asked.
“Dewey kept firing as he fell. One shot went into the ground. He rolled over and the next one went in the other direction, into the building across the lot.”
“What about the bullet behind where you were standing?” Greene asked.
Ozera shrugged. “Dewey walked out a few steps toward where the Cadillac had been, didn’t even go into the light, and fired right over my head. I saw him stomp on the shell casing and kick it across the lot to where Jet’s car had been.”
Armitage watched Greene nod, the way you nod when a mystery is solved for you. Like those Hardy Boy books he’d loved to read, back here in the woods. In his secret fort.
“Dewey set it all up to make it look like Jet was firing at him.”
Armitage heard the voice saying the words. It was flat. Lifeless. It sounded like someone else. Who was talking? But he knew it was his voice. Maybe this was who he really was, he thought. What he really sounded like.
Everyone stared at him. Were they surprised that he knew all this? Penny looked shocked, but Greene didn’t.
“Mr. Ozera here told me everything after I made the stupid deal with Cutter,” he heard himself saying. Still that same voice. This is what Ralph sounds like, not Ralphie. “I tried to shut him up. I pulled his charges.”
Penny lifted her hand from his arm. He couldn’t blame her. The woods around them were dark. Lovely, dark, and deep, he thought. He knew them better than anyone. He had grown up without any brothers to play with. Dad was always at work. He’d spent hours, days, summers, playing pretend Cowboys and Indians back there, acting like Davy Crockett. Hidden in his old bedroom, he still had that fake coon hat he got for his sixth birthday.
A new set of fireworks lit up the sky.
“Oooh! Wow!” the kids screamed.
He loved to hear the sound of happy children playing. He had so many secret forts and special hiding places. They’d never find him there. Never.
The light started to fade. Penny had let go. Nothing was holding him now. Quick, before there was another burst. He stepped back quietly. Stepped again. One more. Almost there.
It was getting dark. Real dark.
Another step. Okay, Ralphie, he told himself, last step and …
He heard the click sound before he felt the cold metal on his wrist.
A huge fireworks display exploded, and he saw that a Toronto police officer wearing a blue turban behind him. That was so Toronto. So multicultural. Where had the guy come from? Before he could react, the cop had his second hand behind his back and had bolted them together in the handcuffs.
Instinctively, he tried to pull them apart.
The hard steel dug into his wrists. He felt the pain, and he knew this was no dream. His real-life nightmare had begun.
71
“What kind of vodka do you have?” Nancy Parish asked the server.
He was cute. Not quite as cute as Brett from the Pravda Bar had been, but not unattractive. She laughed to herself for using a lawyer’s double negative. The guy had already told them that his name was Stuart, and he’d be their server for the night.
“Stoli, Grey Goose, Absolut, Blue Ice,” Stuart the almost-cute waiter said.
She grinned. “Grey Goose. Double shot, with a glass of water on the side.”
Stuart smiled back. Had a sweet little dimple in his cheek.
“And you, sir?” He turned to Larkin St. Clair.
They were sitting on the outdoor patio at Pappas Grill. All of St. Clair’s attention was focused on the seemingly endless parade of scantily dressed females promenading on the Danforth on this warm summer night.
“Sir?” Stuart asked again, his pen poised above his little waiter’s notepad.
“Ah, a Coke.” St. Clair peeled his eyes from the short skirts and long legs voyaging past on the other side of the wrought-iron railing. “No ice.”
Stuart scampered off to get their drinks, and St. Clair went back to staring.
“See,” Parish said, “there are advantages to not living your life in jail.”
St. Clair’s hair had grown about half a foot since his arrest. It was
inching its way down his back and lovingly coiffed.
He turned his attention back to her. “Can you believe it? We are actually here at Pappas, having drinks on the patio. Did you ever think it would happen?”
“I’m going to remain silent, on the grounds it might incriminate me.” She didn’t want to break the moment for him—considering he’d just gotten out of jail this morning—by mentioning that St. Clair still had three more years of probation to get through before he was truly a free man. Three more years of drug and alcohol testing. Three more years of “keeping the peace and being of good behavior.” “Being of good behavior” was stretching things a tad for Larkin, she thought, especially when it came to women.
Stuart came with the drinks.
Parish and St. Clair both sipped in silent appreciation of the moment. The sun was bright and the temperature perfect. The long winter she’d been through was a dark memory.
“Sorry I made you miss that trip to Mexico.” St. Clair was wearing a black T-shirt, his sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, exposing his prison-hard biceps.
“Guy wasn’t worth it,” she said.
“I keep telling you, guys are jerks,” he said.
“So I keep hearing.”
He took his eyes off the parade of exposed female flesh and looked at Parish. “You did an amazing job at my trial.”
“It helps that you weren’t guilty for a change.”
“Only me,” he said. “I try to save someone’s life and almost end up going to jail for twenty-five years. Would have without you.”
Parish hadn’t exactly won the trial. But getting a hung jury had turned out to be the key. When Greene found Ozera, the baker from the Tim Hortons, he told the police the exact same story St. Clair had told Parish months before in jail. With this new evidence, Dewey Booth had been charged with perjury at the first trial and first-degree murder.
Parish and Albert Fernandez, the new Crown on the case, quickly worked out the obvious deal. St. Clair, who’d already been in jail for half a year, pled guilty to accessory after the fact for hiding the gun and got three years’ probation. The maximum amount, and maybe, just maybe, enough time for his aunt Arlene to keep him on the straight and narrow. Especially with Dewey now looking at twenty-five years in jail for the murder of Kyle Wilkinson..
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